


LOVE WHILE WE'RE HERE

by Jantique



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Coming Out, Episode Tag, First Time, Homophobia, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-19
Updated: 2011-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-22 20:15:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jantique/pseuds/Jantique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Blair cleans up all the shit in the apartment in "Vendetta", Jim is truly grateful. But new love leads to new complications, and Jim ultimately makes a decision that will change his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Time Passes By

**Author's Note:**

> Since these were originally written as separate stories, I have little notes at the end of each chapter. Off-screen death of Original Character. This story was first written in 1999, which was the 30th anniversary of Stonewall. The dates (and number of days) work out for that year. Sadly, the emotions--and the feelings and acts that trigger them--are all still true.
> 
> This is for Matthew Shepard.

Time Passes By

 

* * *

The missing scenes from "Vendetta”, during and just after the episode ended.

* * *

Ellison was definitely out of line. Okay, he had a little "road rage". He never should have pulled the guy out of his car, and he positively never should have shown him his ID. But how was he to know the guy was a homicidal maniac, and would start stalking him? _Way_ overreaction, man.

And maybe it wasn't too smart for me to leave an extra key above the door. But, I mean, this lunatic would have picked the lock or shot it out or something, right? I don't think that was really my fault.

So anyway, we come home, and there is a pile of _manure_ on the coffee table, gracefully spilling over onto the couch, the floor, you name it. Now, piece for piece, horse manure isn't nearly as gross as, say, doggie doo-doo. But when you have a ton or two of it in your living room. . . .

Like Jim always says, it's his loft, right? Not that I wanted manure in the house, but this was definitely a chore we should have _shared_. But he's on a case, undercover as a safecracker, getting in tight with the thieves. So he leaves, keeping the city safe, and who get to clean up the mess? Yours truly. I'm not going to get into details, but I used shovels, mops, rags, disinfectant, scouring powder, brooms, more disinfectant, and I would _never_ admit this to Ellison, but I used a toothbrush to clean in-between the cracks. Called Sears to steam clean the furniture and rugs, and made them do it twice. Threw away all the cleaning utensils I used and the clothing I was wearing. Tons of room spray. (I knew it would give Jim a smell overload, but better than the alternative.) Left the windows open for hours, and it was _cold_. (No, I did NOT turn on the fan! Don't say it.)

After all this, he comes home, looks around and says, "Good job, Chief." Of course, you have to know how to interpret what he says. What he _meant_ was, "Thanks for cleaning up; I know it was a lot of work. I appreciate it." It was all right there in "Good job", except for the last part. I knew he meant, "I appreciate it" when he said "Chief", not "Sandburg". Ah, I live for compliments. (Okay, maybe that's a little cynical. I know he can't let me--or anyone--too far inside his emotional personal space. He wouldn't be able to handle it. I can respect that--well, I can live with it. Like I have a choice.)

Eventually, he cracks the case, nearly getting killed again, courtesy of the aforementioned lunatic, but it's over. Until the next case. Simon sends him home and I head back to my office to do all my University paperwork (as opposed to police paperwork). I have a couple of granola bars for dinner while I'm grading papers and, because it's been a rough week and I think I owe it to myself, I sneak a Ghirardelli bar, dark chocolate with raspberries. Mmm!! (Never admit that to Jim, either. But then, _that_ list is endless.)

Finally, I head home. Knock, no answer. Open the door, and for a split second I think the lunatic has struck again. The couch, the floor, everything is covered with--rose petals? Pink, red, white, yellow, _rose petals_! Hundreds, maybe thousands of petals everywhere. I shake my head. They're beautiful, and the scent is delicate. (Well, for Jim it could be overwhelming. For me, it's perfect.)

"Jim?" No answer. I _carefully_ walk up the stairs, which are likewise festooned, but he's not there either. His bed is covered with petals, mostly yellow and pink. Hmm. I gingerly walk back down, trying not kick all the petals off the stairs or slip and break my neck. I check my bed. No, they stop at my doorway. Just a couple of stray petals drifting into my room, that's all. Well, I might as well take advantage of the opportunity. I flop down on the couch (primarily pink and white). The petals are soft, silken. I rub one against my cheek. Jim would have a field day tactilely on this. It occurs to me: Jim will have a _fit_. I see "beautiful"; he'll see "mess". Should I guess who gets to clean it all up? Although cleaning _this_ will be a pleasure. It's a pity, but he won't appreciate the thoughtfulness of whoever--who _did_ do this, anyway? I can't think of any likely candidates. Maybe someone from his past.

Then I see the note folded on the coffee table, standing up, in a pile of fragrant red petals. No wonder I didn't see it at first--it doesn't stand a chance against the roses. It says "Blair" on the front. Jim's hand, careful, flowing script. Inside it says, "I know I didn't thank you properly for cleaning the manure. I could say I was busy or distracted, but the truth is, everything looked normal, so I didn't think about it. You give my life order out of chaos. The first test you gave me was smelling the roses. I should do that more often. I'd like to make it up to you, not for just this, but for everything you do for me. Jim"

Wow! This is amazing! I don't know how to take it. This whole scene is utterly romantic--therefore, it _cannot_ be from Jim Ellison. Maybe it's his idea of a joke? Doesn't sound like a joke. Maybe he means--what _does_ he mean, and where the hell _is_ he?! Did he chicken out at the last second? But that's not him, either. I can see him sitting glassy-eyed in a cold sweat. But not to turn and run, that's not who the man _is_.

//If it is romantic, if it means what it looks like--how do I respond to that? I always wondered what we'd be like together. But if he can't be open, if he shut me out after _that_ , I couldn't bear it. Fantasize: Jim sitting here next to me, and we--to hell with fantasy! WHERE IS HE?!//

I read the note again, turning it over and over. Then I see on the back, written hurriedly, "I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere."

I smile and lean back. I'm not going anywhere. This could be the beginning of a beautiful--what? Have to wait and see. I can hardly wait.

 

        Dreams drift away like petals on the water,

        They roll down the river and slip out of sight.

        Too many times, we do what we ought,

        Put off 'til tomorrow what we'd really rather do tonight,

        And later realize

        Time passes by, people pass on,

        At the drop of a tear, they're gone.

        Let's do what we dare, do what we like,

        And love while we're here, before time passes by.

 

* * *

"Time Passes By" by Jon Vezner and Susan Longacre. I changed one word above, so sue me. 

* * *


	2. Love While We're Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More romance. New love.

Blair dozed on the couch, his shoes and socks off, toes snuggled into the rose petals that covered it--a few red, but primarily pink and white. He held a small, handwritten note clutched in his hand, a few white petals drifting down off the top of the couch, coming to rest on his chestnut curls.

When he woke, the note was gone, and a legal-sized pad of ruled yellow paper rested in his hands. He hadn't heard a thing--but Special Forces Captain James Ellison could move very quietly when he wanted to.

Sandburg shook himself awake, blinked, and read the pad. The message said,

 

 _Blair,_

 _Sorry, Simon called me down to the station. I'm back now. Hell, I don't even know how you feel about this. But if you're interested, take a nap or go out, whatever, but don't come up to my room for half an hour. I need time to get ready. It's 7:35 now. If you don't, I'll understand. It's your call._

 _Jim_

 

Blair read it three times to make sure he understood, then checked his watch. It was 7:50. He was curious, but no way was he going to spoil this. He thought he'd better go out and get some fresh air--besides, that would keep him from peeking. He went downstairs and leaned against the building, but he was too antsy to stand still. He walked from one corner of the block to the other, resolutely resisting checking the time more than every two minutes, more or less. (Okay, less.) It _sounded_ like a fantasy. A _sexual_ fantasy. Not that he thought Jim didn't have them, or anything, he'd just never dared to believe that Jim might have them about _him_. He'd _imagined_ it, sure, but jerk-off fantasies and Reality were two very different things, and he didn't confuse the two. Until, maybe, tonight.

At 8:04 (it would take at least a minute to get upstairs), Blair turned and re-entered the building, ready for anything, counting on nothing. Up to the third floor, open the door, slip inside. Carefully hanging up his jacket, Blair went up the stairs to the loft. To Jim's bedroom. To Jim. He had an odd sensation to tiptoe, it was so quiet, but of course Jim knew he was there. Up to the top of the stairs--then he gasped, grabbing the rail for balance, and stood and stared.

Candles were lit around the room. The bed was strewn with pink and yellow rose petals, as before. Most of the area was covered by one very naked Jim Ellison, spread out across the middle of the bed, lying on his stomach, and likewise festooned with rose petals. Specifically on his neck, down his spine, caught between his buttocks, and, yes--Blair stopped breathing--fluttering out of his anus.

Autonomic reflex took over, and Blair breathed again. He was going to thank every deity he'd ever heard of--later. _Much_ later. But--as perfect an embodiment of all his fantasies as this was--if he wasn't dreaming, they needed to talk. Hmm, Jim would _not_ like that. Okay, compromise. Just the really, _really_ important stuff. He could prioritize. He started unbuttoning his shirt.

He cleared his throat. "J-Jim? This is perfect; you are _so_ beautiful, man. And I'm not gonna talk, I promise."

A low voice from the bed growled, "Good."

Blair swallowed hard, and worked faster on his clothing. "I just have to ask, you're clean, right? I mean, you've been tested?"

"Yeah, Chief, I'm clean. Are you?"

"Oh, yeah, man! How can you say that? What, you think I eat health food and then go have stupid sex?" He was indignant.

Jim didn't reply. But his shoulder blades rippled, and a few petals spun into the air before settling down. Blair yanked his jeans and shorts off. He reached out his hand, then stopped himself.

"Just . . . just one more thing. You know, you don't have to do this just 'cause you think I want it. I mean, I do, you're a living fantasy, I'd be crazy not to want you, but . . . you don't have to give me a pity fuck or even a thank you fuck because you're _grateful_ , okay? I mean--"

Jim turned his head toward Blair, ice-blue eyes drilling into his. "Sandburg," it was definitely a low animalistic growl, "if you don't get your ass over here and fuck me into next Tuesday _right now_ , I won't be responsible for the consequences." More calmly, with a hint of a smile, "And you can talk in the morning, all you want. If you have the energy."

Blair nodded, not daring to speak again. Then he stretched out his hand again, and carefully but firmly drew one finger from Jim's neck down his spine, to the top of his ass. Jim sighed. Blair straddled him, resting on his knees, and traced the line with his tongue, starting with his partner's ear, slipping inside the whorl, around and down to the back of his neck. He placed Jim's arms at his sides, palms upward. Slowly, slowly, he licked his way down the spine, rubbing his own furry chest against Jim's smooth skin, his hands massaging that smooth, firm back on either side. Blair suddenly felt that the subject of his dissertation was the geography of Jim Ellison, and he needed to memorize the contours of the smooth, muscular, perfect body beneath his hands. He moved his hands around to Jim's chest, fingertips circling his nipples then rubbing them gently with the center of his palms. It was incredibly erotic. He moved down to Jim's navel, again circling the edge.

He stopped to kiss the inside of Jim's left elbow. When he reached his wrist, he kissed the throbbing pulse and licked the palm, giving one gentle stroke of the tongue to each fingertip. Then he continued his descent, down to the beautiful, perfect ass and into the crack, pushing aside rose petals as he went. Jim not only tasted as luscious as he'd imagined, he smelled wonderful, too--a little rose, some musk, and all Jim.

Blair plucked out the rose petals with his teeth. The red ones were definitely more fragrant. He pushed himself back and admired the perfect pink hole, breathing warm air on it. Jim groaned and stretched himself. But his Guide pulled back--it was too much, too soon, and he wanted to make this last. There was so _much_ of Jim Ellison, and he wanted to taste it all.

He licked his way down Jim's left thigh, his hands stroking and kneading everything in sight, down to the back of his knee. He carefully tongued it, getting it good and wet, then gave a gentle nip and pressed flower petals to the spot. Jim encouraged him with moans and reassuring sounds along the way, noises that might mean "Yesss" and "More!", but definitely were not "No, stop!" He must be doing something right.

He slithered his way down to Jim's left foot, spreading saliva and petals as he went. Around the ankle, down the side, avoiding the instep, which could tickle, finally reaching the toes. He treated these with the respect they deserved, conscientiously laving and sucking each one, working his way from the pinky to the big toe, and carefully inserting petals into each crevice.

When he sucked on the big toe, attentively running his tongue around it as though it were a tiny cock, Jim could stand it no longer. "Come _on_ , Sandburg, get up here and get serious!"

His partner immediately stopped what he was doing, and pulled himself up above Ellison's back. He spoke quietly but firmly.

"No, Jim. In the first place, don't call me "Sandburg" in bed _ever_. In the second place, you should remember the magic words, "Abracadabra, please and thank you". If you want me to stop, just say "Stop".

Jim whispered, "Chief, no, don't stop. Please. And thank you. But--you're driving me crazy!"

Blair smiled. "Jim, I'm your _Guide_. I'll take care of you. Don't I always?" Then he slithered back down the Sentinel's body, until he reached his right foot, and repeated his journey down in reverse.

Jim sighed and relaxed, and gave up his control. The Sentinel didn't have to be responsible--his Guide would take care of him. Blair deliberately worked his way up the right side, sucking each toe, caressing the ankle, going back because he'd forgotten to press the rose petals between the toes, up the leg to the back of the knee--trembling ever so slightly now, with just a drop of sweat. Blair conscientiously licked it clean, savoring taste and texture of the sensitive skin, moving up toward the only rose he cared about, Jim's perfect, pink bud. He tongued Jim's hole, trying to taste/smell/sense all of him. It tasted as good as it looked, and the sudden raw hunger in Blair nearly overwhelmed him. He nipped Jim's inner thigh, and tongued long strokes to the fleshy part of his ass, then butterflied kisses into the crease between the cheeks.

Of course, while all this was going on, and his mouth was thus occupied, the student's brain was still going a million miles a minute. // _Why isn't Jim zoning out on the smell? Of course, the roses' scent isn't very strong--maybe only some of them are perfumed, and the rest are unscented. Yeah, that makes sense. . . . Do Sentinels and Guides traditionally bond sexually? I wonder if Burton knew, not that he'd tell if he did. Although he did translate the "Kama Sutra". . . . Jim's skin is so smooth, so fine-textured. Does he really want this? He never said. Although he looks like he's done this before. . . . He looks gorgeous, is what he looks. And tastes delicious. I think_ _I'm_ _going to zone here. . . . If there's someone important in his past, I have to know--well, no, I don't, but it would be good if he could tell me. We_ _have_ _to talk in the morning. What about our relationship? Is this a one-night stand or a commitment forever? Is this going to change how we work together? Simon's gonna swallow his cigar! . . . Jim clearly needs for me to be in control. I'm his Guide, okay, I can give him what he needs--_ _ **OHMYGOD**_ _!_ _//_

At that moment, his tongue licked around, then finally penetrated, the Sentinel's anus, dislodging soft, fragrant, deep red petals that tasted of _Jim_ , and the famous Sandburg Brain officially Shut Up.

Jim groaned. "Oh, Chief, please, more. I'll do. . . anything you want, but . . . please, no torture."

Blair had to bite down on his lip to keep from laughing out loud. Okay, maybe he was being a _little bit_ cruel. How did the song go? "Cruel to be kind--in the right places." Of course, if he didn't fuck Jim Ellison pronto, _he_ was going to die. He lifted his head and looked over at the night table. There was a tube of _something_ there, next to one of the flickering candles. He thought, 'That better be lube, not Super-Glue,' lunged forward and grabbed it.

He coated one finger with the lube. Hmm, nasty commercial stuff. He could get something natural, that would feel better to Jim's sensitive skin. Next time. 'Next time'--what a concept! He'd never thought _this_ time could happen. He eased the finger into Jim's anus. It slid in easily. He wiggled it around a little. Oh, yeah, Jim was _ready_! He must have prepared himself, while Blair was outside holding up the building. Another finger quickly followed, then another. Jim was moaning and twisting and trying to hump the bed.

"Uh-uh, baby." Blair lay a firm hand on the small of his lover's back. "I told you I'd take care of you." Jim groaned, but immediately lay still. Blair coated his cock and pushed Jim's knees forward. He paused and looked admiringly at his beautiful lover, savoring one perfect moment in time, and the gift his lover was giving him. Then he drove forward and in one passionate stroke nailed Jim to the mattress.

Jim gasped, "Blair!" For his part, the Guide couldn't speak, couldn't even think. With his last remaining dregs of rationality, he reached around for Jim's cock. It felt like silk, like satin. He was pretty sure it could drill holes in diamonds. His hand was slick, and he pumped Jim as he drove into him, establishing a rhythm. Jim lay with his head on the pillow, arms by his sides. But he was anything but passive. He shoved back, driving Blair's cock deeper into his own body, pushing forward again, driving his cock into his lover's hand. His fingers had a death grip on the sheets. He kept up a steady murmur of "Yes, yes, Chief, please, yes." Blair grabbed Jim's ass, pulling it to him, pulled almost all the way out and launched forward again. Jim's eyes widened, he screamed, "Blair!", and came, shuddering, vibrations running through him like the aftershocks of an earthquake. With that, Blair exploded, barely able to whisper "Jim" as he collapsed on his lover's back.

Moments, aeons, later, he recovered enough consciousness to roll off Jim, onto his own back. They lay sprawled next to each other. Then they looked at each other blearily, and moved together, lips barely touching. Blair breathed, "Wow!" Jim smiled and said, "Our first kiss." It felt good. They went for the second, lips parting, tongues introducing, exploring, passionate yet gentle. It felt better. They parted, gasping for air.

Jim was just moving in try it again when Blair suddenly flopped back onto the bed muttering, "Oh, man! This really sucks!"

"Chief? What's wrong?" The Sentinel sat up and instinctively scanned the area for danger.

Blair reached out a hand and pulled him down. "No, no, it's okay, I mean--"

"Well, what?"

"--I mean, if you're not straight--"

"Who said I was straight?", Jim countered with a wicked grin.

"Well, if you're gay, or even bi.. . ." He was clearly perturbed. Jim waited for the blow to fall.

"Jim, do you realize I'm gonna have to rewrite my _entire dissertation_?!!"

Silence reigned. Jim considered his options, and decided that yes, if he smothered his true love with a pillow right now, he _could_ get away with a defense of justifiable homicide. On the other hand. . . . So he growled instead, and proceeded to kiss the breath--and all wayward thoughts of any dissertation--out of his Guide, repeating as necessary, until they fell asleep in each other's arms.

 

        Thoughts are like pennies we keep in our pockets,

        They're never worth nothing 'til we give them away.

        Love's like a promise in an unopened letter

        Where nights full of pleasure seldom see the light of day

        When life gets in the way.

        Time passes by, people pass on,

        At the drop of a tear, they're gone.

        Let's do what we dare, do what we like,

        And love while we're here, before time passes by.

 

* * *


	3. Officer Down!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gay officer is killed--but by whom? What can, or will, Jim do about it?

_On and on the rain will fall, like tears from a star._

 _On and on the rain will say, how fragile we are._

 

Sunday mornings in bed with Blair--one of Jim Ellison's favorite times of the week. Actually, being in bed with Blair _any_ time was good, but on Sunday they had _time_ \--time to make love leisurely, time to talk, to snuggle, have breakfast in bed. (He had relaxed the rules--hell, thrown them out the window--when Blair had pragmatically pointed out that they got so many stains on the sheets anyway, a little orange juice or cream cheese wasn't going to make that much difference.) It was May 23rd, cloudy, with a forecast of possible rain in the afternoon, but they had the day off and they were together, and that was all that mattered.

Now they were sitting in bed, breakfast dishes on the floor, with the Sunday paper spread out across the bed. Blair looked up from the Book Review. "Umm, Jim?"

"Hmm?"

"It's almost June, you know?"

"Yeah. So? You want to go to the park and play catch, if it doesn't rain?"

"Well, yeah, sure. But I mean. . . ."

Ellison waited. Blair would tell him in his own time. He looked at his Guide and smiled. Blair was frowning, worrying his lip, trying to find the right words. Intelligent, beautiful, funny, sexy as hell. Jim swallowed hard. How had he gotten so lucky? He tried to make it easy for his lover. His Guide had to know that wherever he led, the Sentinel would follow.

"Chief, whatever you say, I'm there."

Blair looked up at him and smiled, a little sadly, then reached up and captured Jim's jaw, pulling him down for a hard, long kiss. Tongues battled, but it was no contest. Jim instantly surrendered, letting Blair seek out all the corners of his mouth, probing down his throat. He belonged to Sandburg, and this was the way it should be, this was heaven. But Blair pulled back, catching his breath, sighed and shook his head.

"No, this is an out-of-bed thing. This is something _I_ want to do. What it is, is, all the Gay Pride marches are in June." He felt Jim tense beside him, and added hastily, "And I know we can't go here in Cascade, I wouldn't endanger you that way, but I want to go to San Francisco. Just to see it. It's gonna be, like, the 30th anniversary of the Stonewall riots, and, and, I think it'd be worth seeing." He added in a rush, "But you don't have to go; I'm not trying to put you on the spot."

Jim thought about it. He didn't think of himself as "gay", though he'd had male partners before, as well as women, and he hoped to stay with Blair for the rest of his life. And they were both men, and he wouldn't change that if he could. But to come out as a gay cop meant more than just risking harassment and name-calling. It meant going down a dark alley and not knowing if his backup would be there, if some good All-American _normal_ cop wouldn't think twice, wouldn't hesitate just ten extra seconds, before risking his own life for a _fag_ , a _cocksucker_ , a _pervert_. He knew he was a good cop. He kept his personal and professional lives separate. And he'd never forgive himself if he put Blair in danger. Nothing was worth that. They'd discussed it, the morning after they first made love, and had been in complete agreement that they didn't need to change the rest of the world, all they needed was each other, and to keep each other safe. Now Blair wanted to go to San Francisco, where no one they knew would see them, and watch the march, which thousands of people would be doing. Safety in numbers. Fair enough. Just because he didn't have the balls to come out himself didn't mean he couldn't applaud the courage of the men and women who did.

He nodded. "Okay, Chief. When do we leave?"

Blair cocked his head and looked at him warily. "You sure, babe? 'Cause you don't have to."

"Yeah, I'm sure. We can stand on the sidewalk and cheer everyone as they go by. Listen, let's make a weekend of it, okay?"

Blair beamed. "Cool." Jim loved that smile. He gathered his Guide into his arms, scattering newspapers, nuzzling his hair as Blair sucked on his neck. Heaven! How could anyone possibly think that this was _wrong_?!

 

 _If blood will flow where flesh and steel are one_

 _Drying in the colours of the evening sun,_

 _Tomorrow's rain will wash the stains away_

 _But something in our minds will always stay._

 

" Officer Down!"

The two words that made every cop's blood run cold. At approximately 11:50 Sunday night, Detective Wills was shot in a drug bust gone bad, in a dark cul-de-sac. He was shot in the head at close range by a .38. After he was shot, his pants were pulled down and the gun barrel rammed up his anus and fired again. The coroner was almost certain that the head wound had come first. The unknown perpetrators escaped. His partner, Det. Bauer, later swore that he'd gone to have a word with their backups, who weren't in position yet. Wills had jumped the signal, and gone into the cul-de-sac on his own. The backup cops agreed. It was a tragedy, but then Wills was like that, a lone wolf, not a team player. Downtown, Major Crimes didn't hear about it until the next day.

In the bullpen, Blair asked Jim, "Did you know him, Wills?"

"Mmm. I've met Fingal; I know who he was. But I didn't know him well; we weren't friends or anything." He didn't mention that he'd occasionally seen Wills in the gay clubs. Not in the bullpen, he wouldn't mention that. "I know he was usually cautious. But then Reading is a tough district; a lot of crap goes down there. You never know."

Homicide took over the investigation, the precinct cops swore to avenge their fallen brother, and Internal Affairs made sure everyone was telling the same story. Major Crimes stayed well out of it. Of course, everyone went to the funeral.

There were lots of cops, a few civilians. One weeping young woman with dark hair who looked a little like Wills. Sister? A blond man who caught Jim's eye and looked hard at him for a moment, then turned away. Ellison had seen him somewhere before, but couldn't place him right away. Wills's father was alive, according to the records, but he didn't come to the funeral or graveside.

After the burial service, Jim and Blair were about to get into the truck, when Jim saw the blond man coming over to them. He remembered now--he'd seen him with Wills at the clubs, and once together in a restaurant, but didn't know his name.

The man was handsome, but his hair was lank, his eyes were red and his eyes were sunken with misery. He put out his hand. It was trembling slightly.

"Detective? I'm Al Douglas. We've seen each other around."--with that certain emphasis that let you confirm or deny it, depending on who was listening.

Jim surreptitiously checked, but no one else was within earshot. He shook Douglas's hand. "I'm Jim Ellison. This is my partner, Blair Sandburg. We're sorry for your loss."

"Oh, yeah, absolutely. You have our deepest sympathy."

Douglas looked at Sandburg. "Are you on the force?" He needed to know what "partner" meant, in this context.

Blair looked at Jim, who thought for a moment, then gave a flicker of his eyelids, _'It's okay_ '. Blair couldn't help smiling, just a little, shook his head and said, "No, I'm an anthropologist," moving a step closer to his lover.

Douglas nodded, reassured. "Detective, can I talk to you somewhere privately? I mean, not private from you" (to Blair), "but away from _them_." He indicated the police contingent dispersing on the hillside.

"Sure, any time. We live at 852 Prospect, do you know where that is? Or, I could come to your place."

"No, I'd rather get out of the house. Is tonight all right?"

Blair chimed in, "Sure, man, any time. Anything we can do for you."

Douglas shook his head. "Not for me, for Fin." His voice strengthened. "For Fin." Then he closed his lips sharply, as if afraid to let too much escape, and went back to his own car.

Around eight o'clock, Douglas came over to the loft. Blair and Jim expressed their condolences once again, and got him settled with a cup of coffee. Blair had been in a quiet panic all afternoon. He could not _imagine_ losing Jim. But it could happen to any cop, no matter how careful you were. His heart really did bleed for Al. Any help they could offer, he was determined to give. And, guiltily, thank all the deities that _it wasn't Jim_.

Douglas sipped his coffee, looked around the loft, looked at Blair and Jim a lot. 'Deciding whether to trust us,' they both thought. Finally, he put down the cup.

"Fin and I were lovers for four and half--almost five years. We lived together for three years, now. He wasn't "out"--but we went places together, people saw us. You know."

Jim nodded.

"Fin used to work out of Brookville. It was great there, nobody cared. I mean, he didn't throw it in anybody's face, but I came into the station a couple of times to pick him up, we left together, nobody _cared_. A little name-calling, that was the worst of it. The one time someone threatened him, the captain personally tore the guy a new one, wouldn't stand for any crap. It was great." He sighed and closed his eyes, lost in memories.

"Then he transferred to Reading. It was a fucking _promotion_." Pain shook his voice. "At first it was okay. I mean, he has a good Irish name, Fingal O'Flahertie Wills, so he must be "a regular guy", right? Then the names started. I never even went in there, but they must have heard something from the guys at Brookville. Then other shit--his files dumped on the floor, important papers missing. Fin went to the captain--you know what he said? He said, really sarcastically, 'Hey, the boys are just getting to know you, it's like a little _initiation_ rite. Why don't you come down to the bar and have a few rounds with the guys, and bring your girlfriend? You're not married, so you must have a _girlfriend_ , right, Wills?' Then Fin started getting black marks on his record, 'Not a team player', 'bad work habits', 'doesn't follow orders', 'doesn't play nice with others'. That was the captain's contribution!

"Fin didn't want to go to Internal Affairs. You do that and you're permanently screwed, a trouble-maker who can't get along with good cops. Especially when you have no one to back you up. A roomful of cops and nobody saw or heard anything."

Douglas leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.

"Al? You okay?"

He nodded, gathering the remains of his strength. If these men didn't help him--help Fin. . . . He leaned forward intently.

"Look, Fin was a good cop. But, but, he always said, 'I'm not going to be a hero. You cover your own ass, then you cover your partner, then you go after the bad guys.' He would _never_ have gone in there alone without backup! And what I want to know is, there was this little courtyard with bars on all the windows and only one way out. If there were three cops there, how did the perp escape? Unless they let him, unless they set Fin up to be murdered and let the hit man go?!" He buried his face in his hands, gulping air to control the racking sobs, trying to regain control.

Blair was shocked. He looked at Jim. " _COPS_?!" Could cops do that to a fellow officer, no matter how homophobic they were?

But Ellison nodded. "You hate to think it could be true. Cops are supposed to stick together, no matter what. But it could be. I hate to say this, but there are two ways it could have gone down. The way you said, in which case, the perp will wind up dead in a day or two, no motive, no evidence. Or . . ." he took a deep breath, "if they didn't want to go to that much trouble, maybe there isn't a perp at all."

It hit Sandburg like a sledgehammer. He sat bolt upright. "You mean, the _cops_ did it? His partner--he'd have to have been in on it!"

Fin looked up. "His partner's an asshole. I know he tried to get re-assigned, when Fin was transferred in. But . . . he never said or did anything directly, he didn't even talk to Fin. He just pretended he wasn't even there. Fin said it was kind of funny, really." He stifled a sob. "But--but--those guys will stick together. No matter what happened, they'll all tell the same story."

"But Homicide won't," Ellison said. "Homicide works out of Downtown, not Reading. They have to be suspicious, too. There's nothing worse than a bad cop. One of them will roll over to save his own ass. Even their captain won't protect them if he thinks they're dirty." // _I hope_.//

Al shook his head, blond hair swinging, unconvinced. "They might not cover up, but they won't ask questions. Why should they?"

Peripherally, Jim could see his partner giving him the 'Jim, DO something!' look. Well, that was unnecessary. He fully intended to do something.

"Look, Al, I'll go to Homicide and talk to whoever's in charge of the case. I'll make sure they understand all this. And I'll talk to I. A., too, and see if anyone else ever reported these guys."

"Thanks. I--I appreciate that." Douglas gave a ghost of a half-smile. "Umm . . . you won't get in trouble?"

"No, I won't get in trouble. A cop was killed and I intend to take down whoever did it. That's not trouble, that's my duty." He unclenched his jaw. "Besides, Major Crimes thought we were lovers for years even before we were, anyway. I'm lucky; I work with good people. The worst thing that could happen there is, someone could finally win the office pool."

"The WHAT?" Sandburg yelped.

Jim shot him a "Later, Chief!", and turned back to their guest. "Look, I can't promise you justice, the legal system being what it is. But I will find out the truth, I promise you that."

"Thanks again. I believe you. Just--just do it for Fin."

The next day, Ellison apprised Homicide of his concerns. Homicide was _very_ interested. The two detectives in charge of the case were both straight, married with children, but they were _cops_ , and _Damn_! if they were going to let the murder of a fellow officer go unsolved, especially if there were dirty cops involved.

Internal Affairs was less helpful, running along the lines of, "Oh, sure, everyone hates those lousy I. A. bastards, except when you want something from us, so what can we do for you now, Detective?" Nonetheless, they did eventually, and after much sweet-talking and sucking-up-to, cough up the information that there had been various complaints of racism, sexism, homophobia and general nastinesses against several detectives and uniforms alike at Reading over the years. Minor discipline handed out, a few slaps on the wrist. Nothing major ever proven. A transfer-out rate one-third higher than the city average. But the captain had achieved a high arrest and conviction rate, and HQ was, ultimately, interested in results.

Ellison checked out the crime scene himself, using his Sentinel senses, but found nothing. It was too little, too late, and if there had been any evidence, it was gone now, washed away in the spring rains.

 

 _Perhaps this final act was meant_

 _To clinch a lifetime's argument_

 _That nothing comes from violence and nothing ever could_

 _For those born beneath an angry star_

 _Lest we forget how fragile we are._

Memorial Day was a barbecue at Simon's house. It being a holiday, and therefore a Special Occasion, Blair had no intention of eating the tofu dogs the Captain had thoughtfully provided, and stuffed himself like a pig. Playing football with Daryl after that probably was _not_ a good idea, as he found out the hard way. Jim spent a lot of time looking at his colleagues--his friends. Yes, Blair was welcome here. He'd proven himself, time and again. And Major Crimes didn't even gossip about the two of them any more--they were an accepted fact. Would "officially" being out be any different? He grinned. He knew he could count on _his_ partner! But the rest of the CPD--the rest of the world--what about them?

Simon came over, happy as a pig in--anyway, it was his own backyard and he could smoke his cigar. In deference to Jim's nostrils, he waved it in his other hand. "So!" he happily boomed. "Where are you going on vacation?"

"Vacation?" Jim dragged himself back to the present.

"Long weekend, last weekend in June, remember? I already _gave_ you the time!"

Right, that was San Francisco Gay Pride. "Oh, we'll just drive up the coast, get away from it all for a while. Leave the cell phones behind and no forwarding address."

"I hear you!" Simon grinned. "But seriously, Jim, where are you going?"

Jim's mouth twitched. "Seriously, Captain," he motioned the big man in closer, and whispered, " _Away_ ".

Simon sighed and straightened up. "Aw, you're no fun. And to think I let you drink all my beer."

"Hey, I _brought_ that beer!" The conversation dissolved into good-natured banter. Would it be so terrible to tell Simon where they were going? He wouldn't tell anyone else, and if he did, so what? So--what? It been instinctive, a survival instinct maybe. When Jim was in the Army, or in Vice, he never told, and now he didn't, either. Now he had something--someone--worth protecting. A reason to protect himself. Wills hadn't protected himself properly, and look where it had gotten him. No, no, that was blaming the victim. No one had a right--but you had to look after your own. That was understood. He drank his beer, suddenly depressed. The sunlight had gone from the afternoon, and all he wanted to do was to go home with Blair and lock the door behind them.

May rolled into June. The days were long and beautiful. The investigation was stalled. Homicide was pretty sure the cops were mixed up in it somehow, but that was gut instinct. They had no proof either way, and no one was rolling over.

Jim went to see Al Douglas, assuring him that the investigation was ongoing, and they were _not_ going to let it die. He didn't know what else he could say. As a matter of policy, the Department _never_ closed the book on an unsolved cop killing. That didn't mean that anyone would ever pay for it. All the bastards had to do was to stand fast. Who would risk his own life to get justice for a dead queer? Ellison didn't say all that. He didn't have to. Douglas had lived in the United States of America for 34 years, 17 of them as a gay man, and he knew the score. He thanked Jim for his trouble. Ellison felt helpless. He didn't know what else he could say. But he knew what he could do.

 

 _On and on the rain will fall, like tears from a star._

 _On and on the rain will say, how fragile we are._

 _How fragile we are, how fragile we are._

Later that night, they were sitting on the couch, Blair working on his laptop, Jim ostensibly reading, in reality watching Blair work. Blair was adorable when he worked, hair falling forward, glasses sliding down his nose. Jim smiled. "Umm, babe?" Blair looked up.

""Why did we make you an office?" He waved in the direction of Blair's old room.

"Oh, yeah! But--I just like sitting here with you."

The thousand-watt smile melted Jim's heart, the same way it always did. He grinned, "I'm not complaining. Oh, sorry, I shouldn't have interrupted you."

"No, I'm glad you did. I'm stuck here anyway."

"Ah . . . Blair?"

"Sandburg" was the station; "Chief" was bedroom. "Blair" meant it was important. "I'm listening."

"When is Gay Pride Day here in Cascade? Is it the same day as San Francisco?"

"No, it's earlier. I think it's the 19th. Why?"

Jim looked into those beautiful deep blue eyes and knew he could do anything. "I think--I think I should go. I think I _need_ to go."

"To watch it?"

"No. To _be_ there."

"Jim--"

"I know. And it'll kill me if I put you in any danger. But . . . Blair, I'm not good with words, but this just feels right. Like it's something I need to do."

Sandburg cocked his head and considered. "It's a big step, Babe. Does this have anything to do with Wills?"

"Yeah, maybe. Don't ask me how, exactly, I don't know. But, yeah. If I can't nail the bastards who killed him, at least--I don't know. But it does. It's something I can _do_. And partly with not telling Simon that we're going to San Francisco, just automatically, don't ask, don't tell. I've lived my whole _life_ that way; it's second nature. But with you--and you've changed me, opened me up to life and love and--and with you, I don't want to be that way any more." He stopped, uncertain. "Does that make any sense?"

"Oh, yeah, absolutely. It makes a lot of sense." He smiled that million-watt smile again.

"So--it's okay with you if I do this? Because if it isn't, I won't. I wouldn't do anything--"

Blair cut him off with a passionate kiss. When they could breathe again, he said, "Yeah, Jim, it's okay with me if _we_ do this." He looked into clear blue eyes. " _Together._ "

 _Together._ That had a nice ring to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song "Fragile" is by Sting. Bonus points to anyone who recognizes the names! Oh, you didn't? Okay: Oscar FINGAL O'FLAHERTIE WILLS Wilde, Ballad of READING Gaol and, of course, ALfred DOUGLAS.


	4. Rite of Passage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim and Blair go to the Cascade Gay Pride Parade.

"If I am not for myself, who will be for me? If I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now, when?" --Hillel

_And this is for us all._

When Jim Ellison joined the Army, he thought, "Now I'm a man." In Peru, he learned what he would and would not do for his own survival, and that of the tribe. Through his marriage and the subsequent divorce, he learned about Love--what he expected from it, what he needed to give. Regaining his enhanced senses, and learning to ask for help to deal with them. Accepting that help from a "neo-hippie witchdoctor punk". Learning to trust him--learning to love him. Each time, he stood before the mirror and said, "Oh. So _this_ is what I look like." Each time, the picture changed a little. He'd been afraid that it might change too much. This time, the change was his own choice. It didn't come easily for him. Now he stood in front of the mirror, and he wasn't sure whom he saw. Was he changing out of all recognition? Or was this his true self?

* * *

The decision had been made, but the die was not yet cast. They would go to the Cascade Gay Pride March. He, James Ellison, who had never in his life come out to anyone whom he hadn't gone to bed with, was going to _march_ in the Cascade Gay  & Lesbian Pride March. Publicly, in front of everyone. It was scary. There would be consequences. But he felt a compulsion. He was almost 40 years old, and after all this time, it was not only conceivable, it was _necessary_.

Blair went on the Internet, looking for information about the March. Along the way, he managed to gather information on the Stonewall riots, the Mattachine Society and the Sacred Band of Thebes. Jim called the Gay Officers Action League, Northwest (GOAL/NW). (Lesbian, Bisexual and Transsexual officers had graciously put aside their claims in favor of the acronym, though not without considerable wrangling). At that, he didn't have the nerve to call from the bullpen. He used his cell phone in the truck. He introduced himself, and asked whether the Cascade P. D. would have a contingent in the March. Yes, Lt. Goldman assured him, there would be a local contingent, though most of the police marching would be from Seattle or Portland. Particularly after Det. Wills's death, many cops thought it was just too risky to march in their own home town. Being out in their own precinct, with the people they worked with, who knew them, was one thing. Marching in front of the whole city--in front of all those other, _straight_ cops who were doing crowd control--was something else. Then the name recognition kicked in.

"Det. _Ellison_?"

"Yes." Shit. He could feel it coming now.

"Jim Ellison? Officer of the Year?"

He ground his teeth. "Look, I want to come, but I _don't_ want to be a poster boy. Okay?"

Her voice was unexpectedly warm. "Oh, I understand completely! That's the great thing about the March--you're _not_ doing it alone, we're all together. Believe me, no one will make you a poster boy if you don't want to be one. With some of the exhibitionists who come to Pride, no one will even notice the cops! Detective, there are going to be thousands of marchers--maybe _tens_ of thousands of people watching." She hesitated. "Um, let me ask, is this your first Pride?'

"Yeah."

"Well, I don't know where you're at, in your personal journey. But I do hope you will march with us--oh, and wear your uniform if you feel comfortable doing that. But if you're not ready to march, just _come_. Stand there and watch and wave. Believe me, every person who turns out _means_ something. We need your presence, and . . . I can promise you, you'll regret it if you don't come, but you won't be sorry if you do."

He wondered about that. It was a fine line between self-preservation and fear. He was a survivor. But cowardice was not an option. Hell! He needed to talk to Sandburg.

Home. Jim looked around the loft with satisfaction. Everything he needed was right here. His lover, his home, the TV remote control--okay, just kidding about the remote. But this was a _safe_ place. So why--?

"Blair? " his voice was soft. "Do you want to do this?"

Blair looked up from his magazine, then saw the look on his lover's face. "By "this", you mean the Gay Pride march, right?"

Jim nodded.

"And you want me to tell you what to do."

"You're my Guide. That's your job."

Blair shook his head. "Sorry, love, it's not that simple. Not about this. Anyway, you seem to be under the mistaken impression that I tell you what to do with your senses. Well, I don't. I'm not _that_ dominating--at least, not out of bed!" He quirked a grin.

The Sentinel was confused. But that was all right, because he knew his Guide would explain.

"Jim, I tell you how to _control_ your senses. I help you visualize the dials, so you have the _option_ of turning them up or down. If I tell you to, umm, piggyback your sight onto your hearing, it's because you've given me a goal you want to achieve, and I try to help you reach it. We work together, but we're still individuals. I can't give you _orders_ , and damn well not about this! Coming out is something everyone has to decide for him or herself."

Fair enough, but no help. "Well, will you go? I mean, if I don't."

Sandburg frowned. "Well, from what you say, the guys at Major Crimes have a pretty good idea about us."

"Yeah, but they just accept us. We belong there. It's not them I'm worried about." Jim reached over and ruffled the beautiful brown curls. "Look, you know I think you're a trouble magnet." He held up a hasty hand, before Blair could protest. "Maybe you're not, maybe it's hanging around me that does it. But I don't want to put you in any more trouble, especially with homophobic, self-righteous cretins who don't appreciate how wonderful you are."

Blair looked up and smiled. "I know, and I love you for it. But--" Oh! The brain jolted into gear, as he realized that he had to make his decision--at least, what he said--based on how Jim would react. For himself, he was proud of being The Great Obfuscator--it was a survival tactic. When you were smaller and usually younger than everyone else, you tried to blend in, not put yourself on the line. But Jim had grown up with words like Duty, Honor, Courage--and then he'd had to _lie_ about his very being, all his life. Blair was willing to go for it if Jim wanted to. But he had to get Jim to decide for _himself_ , not what he thought Blair wanted, or what would protect the Guide best.

So, after a moment, he continued, "Jim, if you decide not to go, I won't go to Gay Pride here in Cascade, because that would out _you_. I'll wait and go down to San Francisco; I don't know anyone there, no one knows me, and I'll march there." What he would _do_ was stay home with Jim, disconnect the phone, and make love all day, their own personal version of Gay Pride. Though he didn't think that would happen. Jim just needed that little push.

Jim nodded, took a deep breath. "Okay, let's do it. Together."

So they did.

On the morning of June 19th, Pride Day, it rained. Cascade, June, weekend, parade--of course it rained! But by 10:00, when people started gathering in their various groups, it was only drizzling. And just at noon, when the March officially kicked off, the sun burst through. Everyone cheered. The sun played hide-and-seek with the clouds for the rest of the day, but it didn't rain again.

Det. Ellison dragged his uniform out of the back of his closet, and could (with a certain amount of swearing) still fit into it. Sandburg was torn between marching with the police--after all, he was Ellison's partner on the job as well as off--and going on ahead with the Rainier University contingent. He was amazed how large the group was. All right, mostly students, but still. And each school had its own banner! (Well, not Anthropology. But he saw banners for the Schools of Law, Economics and Public Health. He thought about making up his own little sign, "Anthropology". Of course, he'd have to write pretty small.) He decided that what with the crowds, noise, smells, et cetera, the Sentinel would need him more than RU did. Besides, _who_ had remembered to grab the earplugs when they left the house this morning? Ha! Anyway, being with Jim would be much more fun--but that was _purely_ ancillary to Doing His Duty.

There were thousands--tens of thousands--of people marching. Ten times that many watched them go by, applauding, waving, throwing flowers and confetti from balconies and rooftops. And it seemed that _everyone_ cheered when the gay police contingent went by. It was amazing. So many groups, so many people. They had both seen crowds before, and Blair had been in plenty of protests, but it wasn't just the numbers, it was the people themselves. All races, religions, backgrounds, beliefs. Parents pushing strollers and carrying children piggyback. Dogs with rainbow kerchiefs and pink triangles stuck on their fur. Dykes on Bikes, people in wheelchairs, on foot in sneakers and spike heels. Laughing, singing, chanting serious and silly mantras, women and men in uniforms, tee shirts, jeans with no shirts, and some of the queens so outrageous they would put Mardi Gras to shame.

Through the river of people flowed certain common feelings. UNITY: they were all different, they didn't all agree or even like one another, but they stood here together, for themselves, for each other. ANGER: 1999 was THIRTY FUCKING YEARS since the Stonewall riots, yet gays and lesbians still could not marry their lovers; there was still no cure for AIDS, and rampant discrimination against those who had it; "don't ask, don't tell" would be laughable if it weren't insulting and humiliating; they could lose their housing or jobs if they stopped lying about what they were and whom they loved; they were almost guaranteed to lose custody of their children, they could lose their lives--for loving. For loving another human being. One day a year didn't change that, but it was a start, then you had to go back to your life and work to change things. But it was a start. PRIDE: Oh. So that was what it was. Putting your arm around your lover's waist, walking down the street holding his hand. Simple things. Sharing a laugh and a loving peck on the cheek, followed by the quick, furtive look around--had anyone noticed?--realizing that it didn't matter who saw, it was all right, because you were surrounded by _family_ , and this was HOME. It was exhilarating, a natural high. Blair walked four miles and his feet didn't touch the ground once. Jim sought out Lt. Goldman, a petite redhead wearing a uniform with a short skirt and high heels.

"You were right," he smiled down at her. "I'm glad I came."

She smiled back. "I told you that you wouldn't be sorry."

The march wound through the city, past City Hall, through the South End, the closest thing to a "gay neighborhood" Cascade had, back around to the waterfront, circling and finally inside Memorial Park. There the groups broke up, banners were folded, and people drifted away, to picnic, wander among the booths set up, or listen to the speeches being broadcast from the temporary stage.

Blair always took Jim's breath away, but now he was moving in on Jim's territory. Jim thought _he_ was the one who was supposed to be prepared for anything. He'd told Blair not to bring his backpack. "Come on, Sandburg, you want to schlep that thing for miles? Don't expect me to carry it; it doesn't go with the uniform." Sandburg insisted. He'd brought, in addition to the earplugs, water bottles (vital on the long, hot walk, and enough to share), a couple of energy bars, a beach towel to sit on when they got to the park, and--this was the part that took Jim's breath away--a tank top and shorts for Jim to change into, out of the broiling uniform. True, he had to change in the Portasan (TM), but it was worth it. (The uniform went into the backpack, which Jim gratefully promised to carry for the rest of the day, and forever, if his beautiful, brilliant, _foresighted_ lover so desired.)

Jim wanted to hear the speeches, Blair was hungry. They spread out the towel under a tree, not too close to the loudspeakers. Jim pulled his shoes and socks off his sweaty feet. "Hey, Chief, you didn't bring me sandals?"

"You've gotta be _kidding_ , man! Why didn't you bring your own sandals? Or shirt, or shorts, or water--"

"Hey, I'm joking! I'm grateful, believe me!"

"--or earplugs!" Blair finished triumphantly, as he went off in search of sustenance. Jim let him get the last word in--he deserved it. He wriggled his feet and stretched. This far back from the stage, and not too close to the stands, it wasn't packed. But even using normal vision, he could see thousands of people milling about. Now, not all the marchers were local, he knew that. But most were. And the spectators--gay and straight and bi and whatever--they all lived here, or in the area. They all came out--in both senses of the word--to show their support. Openly, unafraid--or maybe afraid but doing it anyway, which required greater courage. So, between the marchers and the spectators, he mused, these were all the gay men and lesbians of Cascade. (He was wrong. Not all--there were two other groups, but he didn't think of them yet.) The MC introduced two women with guitars.

Blair bounded up, arms full, ponytail flying. "Hey. Babe! I got a felafel, and I got you some teriyaki steak tips, easy on the sauce, and there's no alcohol here, but I got two fresh lemonades, not too much sugar in yours!" Jim couldn't help smiling at the younger man's exuberance. He helped him get settled, and they started to eat.

One of the singers said, "We're very happy and _proud_ to be here, and to see you all." (Applause) "We're going to play an old song, a classic sung by Meg Christian. Unfortunately it's still true, more now than ever. So we'd like everyone to take a moment to remember the ones who aren't here. And this is for us all.

 _I'm thinking about_  
the ones who aren't here  
and won't be coming in late,  
home all alone  
and the family  
and won't be coming out tonight.  
Wish I could know  
all the lovers and friends  
kept from gathering.  
I think of you now,  
the ways you can go,  
we're all of us refugees

_Telling myself_  
and the family,  
my friends and the folks on the job,  
one by one  
and it's never been easy  
and me and everyone changed.  
The hopes and the tears  
when they show you their hearts  
and some never speak again.  
Every pot off the wheel  
can't bear the kiln;  
every love can't bear the pain.

Blair asked quietly, "Do you think it's about AIDS? I mean, all the people who have died?" 

"Yeah, partly," Jim replied, equally hushed. "But I think it's also about the ones who are too afraid to come out, because they have too much to lose, or they've been hurt too badly already. Or maybe they think they can't change the whole world, so they lock themselves away in their own safe little corner."

"Like us."

"Yeah, Chief. Like us."

 _So let's pass a kiss_  
and a happy sad tear  
and a hug the whole circle round  
for the ones who aren't here  
for the hate and the fear  
for laughter, for struggle, for life.  
Let's have a song here for me and for you  
and the love that we cannot hide.  
And let's have a song  
for the ones who aren't here  
and won't be coming out tonight.

They applauded, then sat quietly for a minute when the song was over. It was inspiring. Unfortunately, the next group up used electronic instruments, and they weren't stingy with the amplification. Jim grabbed his earplugs and stuck them back in.

"Come one, Chief, let's clean up this trash and go see what we can spend money on."

They wandered among the rows of booths. A few were commercial, but most featured home-made food or hand-made crafts, clothing, jewelry, CDs and cassettes of women's and men's music, buttons and bumper stickers, free copies of "The Rainbow Waterfall", Cascade's gay newspaper, political action groups, the Human Rights Campaign and a drive to register people to vote, lots of tee shirts, hats and other paraphernalia featuring pink or black triangles and rainbow flags.

Blair couldn't resist buying a heart-shaped Mylar balloon with the rainbow stripes on it. More accurately, he chirped, "Oh, I _love_ balloons!", and gave Jim the puppy-dog look.

Jim started to say, "Sandburg, that is such a waste of--", closed his mouth, sighed, and said, "All right, but just _one_. And if you lose it. . . ."

"No, I'll tie it on. Besides, it will help you find me if we get separated."

Jim smiled. "Not unless your heart stops beating, love. You know I can find you anywhere."

"Yeah, I know." Blair smiled back, and then they did it, right in the middle of Memorial Park, in broad daylight -- they kissed. It wasn't a "get the fire hoses" kind of kiss, just loving and affectionate, needing to express the swell of emotion in their hearts. Giving themselves permission to do it.

Yes, there were a lot of distractions to his senses, but the Sentinel found he really didn't mind what should have been a massive overload. Maybe because they were outdoors, rather in a closed space. Maybe because there were so many different sensations hitting his senses at once, they cancelled each other out. Maybe, he realized, because he was more relaxed than he'd been in a long time. He figured he must be doing something right.

They strolled over to a tee shirt stand. The shirts were adorned with triangles, flags and various slogans or sayings. They took turns pointing out the funny or outrageous ones, laughing and wondering whether anyone would ever wear them in public. On the other hand . . . .

"Jim? What are you looking at?"

He was a little embarrassed. "Umm, that one." He waved vaguely at a shirt hanging on a screen. Blair looked up, and his eyes widened.

"Ooh! You like?"

He was just a little--well, not shocked, exactly, but he had to stop to process this. While it was true that sexually he was usually dominant and Jim was more comfortable being submissive, it was _always_ consensual, and they had _never_ used words like--

Blair said quietly, "Babe? Do you want me to buy that shirt for you?"

The big man muttered, "Yeah," staring at the ground, blushing furiously. Blair thought he looked Absolutely Adorable. But he wasn't going to let Jim get away with pretending that this was Blair's idea, or that it was something he was doing to make Blair happy.

"James, look at me." It was the Guide voice, that Ellison trusted unconditionally. He looked up, face still pink. "Jim, tell me what you want. What _you_ want. Give yourself permission."

He could never resist that voice. He looked up, into vivid, deep blue eyes. Even embarrassment didn't stand a chance against those eyes.

"Chief, I . . . I want to wear that shirt for you. At _home_."

Blair smiled gently. "Jim, you know _anything_ you want is good with me." Then he asked the vendor if they could please see _that_ shirt in an XL. The busy dealer hooked it down and didn't spare them a second glance.

The tee was black with short sleeves. In white letters, it read,

Not Without  
Consent  
From My  
**MASTER**

Blair admitted to himself that he felt a rush, picturing Jim wearing that shirt. He couldn't even imagine what Jim was feeling. //Whoa, time out!// All the blood in his body was rushing somewhere other than his brain, and his jeans were getting tight. He reminded himself firmly that this _wasn't for him_. Well, that was a crock, of course it was. The thought of Jim at home, wearing nothing _but_ that shirt . . . ! //Down, boy!// Still, this had to be about what Jim wanted.

"Babe? Listen, I don't need this. You know that I am _so_ not into labels, right? But if you want it, I'll get it for you."

Jim took a deep breath. "Yeah, Chief, I know. But--as long as you don't mind ...."

"No, I don't mind!" This really was very courageous of Jim. As lover, partner and Guide, Blair figured that it was his duty to push just a little bit more. He paid for the shirt and moved aside, out of the lane of traffic. Then he said, "Jim, let me ask you something. I'm not telling you to do it, but do you _want_ to wear this shirt now? Do you have any _desire_ to?"

Jim mumbled, "Umm." Blair waited.

Finally Jim said, "Well, it's . . . it's like, I see everyone looking at you, you don't realize, but every man here is giving you the eye. I know you think they're looking at me, but either way, I want to say, 'Hey, he's taken; he's mine and I'm his!' But I just--I'm just too aware of people looking."

Blair nodded. "Okay, it's your decision. _Entirely._ All I want to say is, you should give yourself permission to do what you want to do, without caring what other people think. Do what makes you happy. If it doesn't feel right, then don't do it. But--hey, look around you." He waved at the assemblage. "You think these people _care_? If not now, when, man?"

Jim looked around. Sandburg was absolutely right, of course--no one here would care. It was really a matter of giving permission to himself. He took a deep breath.

"Okay, let's do it." He slipped off the backpack, stripped off his tank top, and pulled on the tee. Blair's smile was radiant. "Looks good, man! Jim, you make me so proud, you are the bravest man I know, and damn _right_ you belong to me, I'd be a fool to ever let you go!"

Blair turned to Jim, slipping his left hand up under the shirt, putting it over his lover's heart. He turned into the crook of Jim's arm, pressing against him. Jim looked down at his lover happily. He would _never_ let Blair go, come hell or high--

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash. A freckled, red-headed young man bounded towards them, holding a camera. "Hi, my name's Chris Near; I'm from the 'Waterfall'." He looked impossibly like Jimmy Olsen (Cub Reporter). Jim froze; Blair snatched his hand away from Jim's chest and moved a step away.

Blair demanded, "What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

"Oh, listen, that was a _great_ photo. Perfect Pride--you're obviously in love, you're here together--but listen, I'm not into outing anybody. We don't have to use it, okay?"

Blair was about to scream, "Damn right you're not using it!", but he stopped himself and looked at Jim. Who shrugged and said, "Guess we're coming out with a vengeance, huh, Chief?" Blair almost fell on the floor.

He hastily said to Near, "Okay, wait a minute, just--wait." Then he turned back to this unknown being who looked like his lover, and demanded, "Who are you and what have you done with Jim Ellison?!"

Ellison smirked. It wasn't often he could top Sandburg at his own game. He shrugged again. "I figured, if we're out, we're out. What the hell. Besides, if they see that, maybe the guys at the station will stop hitting on you."

"The guys at the station are not hitting-- Look, that's not the point, okay?"

"Right. The point, if you want to tell the nice man not to use the picture, then I support that 100 percent. Frankly, right now, I don't care. I feel like Superman, I feel like I can fly, I can do anything--as long as I'm with you. I want to stop pretending, I want someone to _win_ the damn office pool already, and whatever shit goes down, I can handle it as long as we're together."

Blair was overwhelmed. "Oh, Jim, that's so beautiful!"

Near sighed happily. Working for a newspaper, he was a professional cynic, but he knew the Real Thing when he saw it. (Besides, he would have used the shot anyway, so it was nice to have authorization, just so they didn't sue.)

"Umm, you guys want to give me a quote? About Pride, yourselves, anything?"

They thought about it. Blair restrained an insane desire to say, "Hi, Mom!" If Naomi ever saw a picture of _that_ tee shirt, she would meditate him a new one!

Then Jim said calmly, "Okay, I'm Jim and this is Blair. We've been together for 1,186 days, since we first met, and I think I'm the luckiest man in the world. I'd be dead or insane now if it weren't for Blair, but more than just saving me, he gives a new reason to live every day."

The cynical newspaperman simply gaped. Blair said, "Uh, Jim? 1,186 days?"

"That's right."

Near said, disbelievingly, "You count the days? Or did you just make that up?"

"No, I don't consciously count, but I'm always aware of Blair when we're together, and even more, in a way, when we're apart. I spent most of my life without him, and I don't intend to waste another day."

Near was scribbling like crazy in a small notebook. Blair helpfully repeated, "That's 1,186 days. And by the way, some of them have been really horrendous. But Jim's right; I'm always thinking about him, whether we're apart or together, and when we're together--well, I never had a home, but now I do. Wherever Jim is. And let me tell you, there's no place like home!"

They looked at each other, and then they did it again, right in the middle of Memorial Park, in broad daylight--they kissed. And _this_ time, they very nearly did have get out the fire hoses. Then they went home and made love all Saturday night and most of Sunday. Monday morning they went to the station--but that's another story.

 

"You are not required to complete the task, but neither may you refrain from beginning it." --Hillel

 FINIS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words to "I'm Thinking About The Ones Who Aren't Here" are by John Calvi. It was recorded by Meg Christian, a founding mother of women’s music.


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